Doubt
by AnEnduringHope
Summary: Tag to 9x24. - McGee set down the sandpaper, swallowing hard. "Gibbs, I shouldn't be here." They both knew he wasn't referring to the basement. "But you are." "Why?" McGee crossed his arms over his chest. "I've asked myself that question over and over. But I just…" He broke off, shutting his eyes tightly. Behind his closed eyelids, he could see it all happening again.


**As promised, here's the secondary part to "Fear" that I posted last week. To the best of my recollection, we've never had a McGee/basement scene (aside from the one case they worked down there.) Maybe someday we'll get one for real? That's something I'd really love to see!**

**All usual disclaimers apply. I own nothing.**

**Enjoy!**

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This was a bad idea, McGee thought as he sat in the dim light of his car and watched the minutes tick by on the dashboard clock.

A really bad idea. His gut churned in tight, anxious knots.

Normally it would be Abby he'd seek out to be his confidant. But she was coping with her own issues after the bombing and he wasn't going to add to them. Based on the dark circles that seemed to have taken up permanent residence under her eyes, he'd wager that she was sleeping even less than he was these days.

She'd been alternating between clingy and… not quite cool… reserved, he thought might be the better word for it… with him ever since it happened. Several times he'd noticed her looking at him with a strange expression in her eyes, but it would vanish as soon as she realized she'd been caught. He didn't pretend to know what was going through her head. She wasn't saying, and he wasn't asking. He'd learned a long time ago not to push, just to ride these things out. She'd talk when she was ready.

The only thing she'd said was on one of the clingy days. They'd been parked in his apartment all afternoon watching movies. She'd sighed heavily, her head on his shoulder. "Nothing's ever going to be exactly the same as before, is it?" Her voice was sad, thick like she was trying not to cry.

What was he supposed to say to that? Especially considering his own state of mind these days. How was he supposed to tell her about the thoughts lingering on the outskirts of his mind since the attack?

If not Abby, who else was there for him to talk to? He'd never utter a word to his family about the inner demons whispering in his ear now. There were just some things he didn't want them to know.

He wasn't going to confide in Tony. Granted, he knew that even Tony had his boundaries. He'd been the one who was there when they'd released him from the hospital, and he'd been decidedly un-Tony-like. He'd driven him home and helped him get settled without even a single wisecrack. "You need anything, Tim?" he'd asked before he left. Not "Probie," not any one of the colorful nicknames that he came up with. Not even "McGee." Just Tim. He honestly wasn't so sure he liked it. It was… strange. Further proof of how far from normal their lives had strayed. And normal was something he desperately craved now.

He didn't honestly think Tony would berate or tease him about the struggles he was having. But even still, he just wasn't comfortable baring his fears to him that way. It went against the grain. It was the same with Ziva. He'd worked for too long, fought too hard, to gain their respect... to have them see him as an equal and not just a junior agent. Not just the eternal probie.

Ducky was still in a fragile state after his heart attack. He couldn't burden him.

That left just one person.

Lights were on inside the house so he knew Gibbs was still up. He'd heard from the others that the door was never locked. He'd be down in the basement.

10:47.

He'd been sitting out in the driveway, vigorously debating with himself the wisdom of what he was about to do, for almost twenty minutes. He strongly considered just driving back home, taking one of the pills the doctors had prescribed and trying to sleep. It'd ultimately be an exercise in futility, though. He'd only have the dreams again.

Every night was a variation on the same theme. He'd hear the deafening explosion, the shattering of glass. He'd hear the screams ringing in his ears, unsure whether they were his own or someone else's. He'd feel the heat of the blast, the force of it sending him flying backwards. He'd taste the coppery tang of blood on his tongue… breathe in the dust and debris, choke on it.

Then he'd jerk awake in a panic, and spend the next several hours convincing himself that it was only a nightmare. That he wasn't buried alive in a pile of rubble.

That dream was still preferable to the other variation. The one where he saw the bomb explode from outside. The one where he ran inside after the blast, panic pumping through his veins. The one where he found his teammates' bodies mangled and broken around their desks, too late to help them. The one where he ran breathlessly, frantically down to the lab, yelling for Abby only to find her lying bloody and still on the ground… her lifeless eyes open, staring accusingly at him… as if to ask why _he_ hadn't been there.

He was uncertain how many of the images he recalled were actual memories of the bombing or how much of it was simply fabricated from his nightmares. He guessed mostly the latter. He knew the blast had knocked him unconscious. He thought he recalled someone – Gibbs, he believed – kneeling over him, feeling for a pulse in his neck, telling him to hold on. That help was coming. He was going to be all right. Though, for all he knew, he could have made that up too.

Physically he was recovered now. All things considered, his wounds had been relatively minor – cuts, bruises, burns, a mild concussion. He'd been lucky, the doctors had said. All of his wounds had healed, leaving minor scarring as the only outward reminder of the trauma.

Emotionally, however, was an entirely different story. Those wounds didn't heal quite so easily. He'd been through the counseling, the therapy, the mandatory psych evals, of course. But it wasn't enough. That wasn't what he needed. Trouble was, he wasn't sure exactly what it was that he did need.

He'd tried writing about it, tried putting his thoughts into words. Seeing his thoughts on paper, watching the words take shape and molding them until they were just the way he wanted had always been cathartic. But the words were just out of his reach, and, in all honesty, he wasn't entirely sure he wanted to see them in physical form in front of him at all. It was too painful.

What happened had made him question everything. He felt he had no answers anymore. It had been a very long time since he'd been so lost, so unsure of himself and the decisions he'd made with his life.

He was out of the car before his brain caught up to the fact that he'd moved. He went up the driveway, to the front door. His hand rested uncertainly on the doorknob for a long moment. With a heavy sigh, he turned it. The door swung open easily.

He couldn't help the feeling that he was trespassing as he walked through the kitchen to find the basement steps. He knew every one of the others had taken refuge in Gibbs' basement at one time or another, but he never had before. Not until now. The only time he'd set foot in that basement was when they were working a case more on the… covert… side.

Uncertain, he hesitated at the top of the stairs. Gibbs was down there. The lights were on. He could hear the repetitious sounds of hand tools on wood. He lifted his hand to knock against the doorframe.

"Come on down, Tim," Gibbs called before his knuckles made contact with the frame. He hadn't even looked to see who was up there. It was that inexplicable sixth sense that he had… the Gibbs sense. More than likely he just knew none of the others would hesitate before going downstairs. Only him.

"Cup's over there if you want a drink." Gibbs still didn't look up, just tilted his head to the far wall where McGee saw the bottle half full of deep amber liquid.

He grabbed the empty glass and poured a few swallows into it. It burned like fire on the way down. Bourbon. Stronger than anything he usually drank.

Gibbs didn't say anything as McGee swirled the liquid around in the glass, toying with it, stalling for time. He didn't indicate that McGee's presence in his basement was anything out of the ordinary. When he finished the last sip of his drink, Gibbs slid a wedge of sandpaper toward him, not looking up from what he was doing.

McGee picked it up, looking at it blankly. He could build a computer from scratch and program it in no time flat. He could almost do it in his sleep. But working with his hands was another matter entirely. He'd never built anything in his life.

Well, there had been that birdhouse he and his grandfather had built together the summer he'd stayed with him when he was ten. His grandfather had shown up with the wood in the back of his truck and had patiently taught him to saw and hammer and build until it was just right. They'd put it in Grandma's back yard, and she'd loved it.

He'd been awfully proud of himself when it was finished. Of course it had helped that Pops had been a patient teacher. He hadn't gotten bent out of shape when he made mistakes. Hadn't made him feel like a failure if it took more than once to get it right.

"With the grain, McGee." He heard Gibbs speak and realized he was still staring vacantly at the sandpaper in his hand.

It took him a few minutes to get the hang of it, but eventually he did. Gibbs glanced over his shoulder after a while. "Not bad, McGee," he said with that half smile of his. The one that wrinkled the corners of his eyes. McGee didn't see that smile directed at him all that often. That smile was usually reserved for Abby.

They worked in silence for a long time. It should have been awkward, but it wasn't. For maybe the first time, he felt at ease with Gibbs. He guessed it was because he was in Gibbs' space, his natural habitat, so to speak. He so rarely spent any time with him off the clock, away from the job. It was strange feeling so relaxed around him, not on his toes anticipating his next command or waiting for a smack to the back of the head to set him straight. Granted it had been quite some time since he'd been the recipient of one of those. These days, the head slaps were mostly reserved for Tony when he was being particularly irreverent.

The basement smelled of sawdust and bourbon. It was peaceful. Oddly so.

After a long while, he shot a sideways look at Gibbs. "You're not wondering why I'm here?" he asked quietly. He wasn't the least bit sure how to broach what he came to say now that it was actually time.

"Figured you'd tell me when you're ready," Gibbs responded casually.

They worked in silence for another beat or two. "I'm having a hard time," he admitted in a small voice. It was even more difficult than he'd imagined confessing his shortcoming to his boss. After all, his opinion, his approval, mattered more to him than he was willing to admit… more than almost anyone else's. There was no one in his life he respected more. Not to mention that his job, his livelihood, depended on him.

"I know that, Tim. I know. I've seen." Gibbs' tone was perhaps the gentlest it had even been while directed at him. "And there's nothing wrong with that."

McGee set down the sandpaper, swallowing hard. "Gibbs, I shouldn't be here." They both knew he wasn't referring to the basement.

"But you are."

"Why?" McGee crossed his arms over his chest. "I've asked myself that question over and over. But I just…" He broke off, shutting his eyes tightly. Behind his closed eyelids, he could see it all happening again.

People around him had died. People just yards away from where he'd been standing when the bomb detonated. People he'd worked with for years. People who had sat at the same desks, shared the same workspace for the better part of a decade. Friends, coworkers, peers. Several had died, more were hurt, some would never recover fully from the injuries they'd sustained.

And he'd been right there with them.

But he was still here when they were not. And he couldn't make sense of it.

"I was running straight toward the explosion, Gibbs. Straight toward it. I saw the squad room. We lost seven agents in that room. I should have been one of them."

"You weren't," Gibbs said evenly, setting down his tools and giving him his full attention. "And it's called survivors guilt, McGee."

"I know what it's called. It's just… This isn't the first time I walked away when I should have died. When Ari killed Kate, those terrorists took a shot at me. When Cassidy's team was killed – when Jim died – it was supposed to be me in that building.

"I don't understand why I'm still here. After all that, what right do I have to still be alive when they've all given up their lives. Is it just dumb luck that they're gone and I'm not? Or is there a reason – some kind of sense to why my time hasn't run out yet?"

Gibbs took a moment before he spoke. When he did, his voice was quiet, sympathetic. "Tim, I have asked myself that very same question more times than I care to remember."

"And?" he prompted him.

"That's something you'll have to find the answer to on your own."

"But what do _you_ think?"

"It doesn't matter what I think. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks. You ask yourself that question as many times as it takes until you have an answer that satisfies _you_."

"And what if I'm not ever satisfied? What if I can't ever make sense of it?"

Gibbs didn't answer. Just kept looking at him with that inscrutable stare of his.

McGee sighed heavily and glanced down to the floor. The sawdust at his feet seemed terribly interesting all of a sudden as he stared at it, tracing patterns and shapes with his eyes. "Boss, I don't know if I can keep doing this. I'm not wired the same way you are… or Tony or Ziva. I'm not sure anymore that this – that being out in the field – was ever the right job for me in the first place… if I'm fit for it."

Maybe it would have been better to stay in cyber crimes… to stay behind a desk, at a computer screen. That was his comfort zone. After all, technology, forensics, that's where his background was. That's what he was good at. Maybe he'd been wrong to push so hard to be a field agent. That was a job more suited for people like Tony and Ziva... strong, assertive, difficult to rattle. That just wasn't him. No matter how hard he tried, that would never be him. How much more could he take before he reached his breaking point? It seemed to be looming nearer and nearer all the time.

Gibbs stepped up to him. His sudden, close proximity demanded attention. He looked up from the sawdust on the floor. There was the Gibbs stare that had been so noticeably absent before – that determined, hell-bent stare.

"McGee, do I let just anyone on my team?" His words were slow. Deliberate.

He shook his head slowly. "No, boss."

"No," he repeated emphatically, driving his point home. "_I_ picked _you_, McGee. I requested your transfer from Norfolk. Do you think we'd be having this conversation if I had any reservations about your ability to do your job? Do you?" he pressed when McGee didn't respond immediately.

"No, sir." He'd never thought of it that way. Gibbs hadn't just _let_ him on the team, he'd put his transfer in motion himself. He'd never considered that when Gibbs told him he wasn't going back to Norfolk, that was his vote of confidence. His way of saying he believed in him. And that was not something to be taken lightly. Gibbs' approval was earned, never given out capriciously.

Gibbs' intent voice brought him back to the present. "What you do, where you go from here is your choice. If you walk, that's your decision. But it had better be because that's what you want, not because you doubt yourself. You got that?"

"Yes, boss," he answered quietly.

After another long moment, Gibbs took a step back and released him from the stare. "You'll figure it out, McGee," he said, picking up his tools again. "Might take some time, but you'll figure it out. And you'll make the right decision."

"I hope so."

"You will." Gibbs turned his attention back to the unfinished lumber in front of him.

After a moment, McGee spoke up again. "It's late. I should probably get going."

"Go on home, McGee. Get some sleep."

"Yeah… good night," he said quietly, starting up the stairs.

"And McGee," Gibbs called when he was three steps up. He paused and turned back around. "Door's always open."

McGee nodded, smiling a little to himself. "I know. Thanks, boss."

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**8 more days! :D We've almost made it! I set my DVR to record the new season when I got home today... and I will not lie, I squealed a little... or maybe a lot!**

**Thanks for reading! Drop me a review and let me know what you think?**

**Nik**


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